


I'm Glad That You're Here

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [136]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 09:52:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15946904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Three lighthouses, after the fall.





	I'm Glad That You're Here

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Lighthouse. Prompt from this [generator](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

The light at first is feeble, a barely there catch in the dark. There is sand in his teeth and blood in his hair, blood everywhere, cold water dug deep in his veins. He’s ten steps from death, then twenty, and by the time he can make out the lines of the light above him, Hannibal knows: somehow, by some miracle, he is alive.

This realization brings him relief, far more than he might have thought; he thought he was ready to die, ready at long, long last to let go. To die with Will in his arms willing and deadly and grateful was more than--was it only yesterday?--he could’ve hoped for.

Will, though. Where is Will?

He sits up, or tries to, and the tear in his side fairly screams, a howl that leaves his lips as a whisper, and he clutches at the shore, rocks and shells cutting into his palms.

Will, his mind spits again. Where is Will?

Now he is shivering, shaking, his whole body reduced a rattle of bones, and if he could, he’d be screaming, he’d be standing, he’d be running up and down on the sand, searching in the night’s caul for his man.

Will. Where--?

He tries to call out again but this attempt is even more pathetic, a wheeze in the shape of a whine, and he falls back on his belly, feels the pound of blood faster now, all at once aware of the hurt. His shock is fading, forming a gangway for the pain, and oh _pragaras,_ does it hurt; so awful, so sharp, he can no longer hold up his head.

Twenty steps from death now, sliding. Eighteen. Sixteen.

The darkness of oblivion calls, the song of a siren. So much easier, his body whispers, to let go than to fight through this pain.

Hannibal breathes in the night air and the sand, claws at an impermanent shore, and resigns himself to it quietly, death. The creature sneaking up behind him with a scythe.

 _I love you_ , he tells the water, the waves that sneak up to his feet. _I loved you more than I thought possible. And now once again, my darling, you have been reborn_.

He grieves for what was not, is pleased, one last time, by what was.He cannot see it, but he knows the eye of the lighthouse is there, unyielding, unwilling to blink, to give even one inch to the dark. He takes some comfort in knowing this, in finding the end of his life at the foot of such a silent, steady guard in the night.

In the moment before his breath dies, he imagines that he can see two girls on the beach, one small, one twice as tall. Misha is wearing Abigail’s scarf; Abigail is holding Misha’s hand. They wait for him. They watch him. And in a moment, slowly, Misha stretches out her free hand.

 _You aren’t real_ , he hears himself say. I _know that. But I am glad that you are here_.

There’s a hand on his face, cold and strong. A voice that isn’t Misha’s, nor Abigail’s; a voice thick with water and another man’s blood.

“Be still,” Will says. “You’re bleeding. We have to wait for the boat.”

A grip on Hannibal’s shoulder, slick, a turn, and now he’s facing the sky, the cut of the lighthouse’s gaze racing above them and out over the sea.

“You’re dead,” Hannibal tells Will, ragged. Or tries to. But the words don’t sound right. Not like English words, maybe. He tries again. “Dead and yet you have come to me, too?”

Will looks down at him for a moment, runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. The gore on his face is gone and his cheeks are red. His hand is shaking. “Shhhh. Hannibal. Don’t talk.”

Hannibal closes his eyes and reaches up, finds Will’s wrist.

“The boat,” Will whispers to him. “It’ll be here soon. We didn’t--we went farther than I thought we would. Didn’t think the current would take us this far. But it’s ok, it’s ok, Hannibal. She’ll find us.” His grip tightens in Hannibal’s hair, a steady fist. “Just stay with me until then. You can do that. I know you can.”

The last thing Hannibal hears before the shadows take him are the sound of the sea, the unsteady rush of Will’s breath, and far above him, the click of the lighthouse’s lamp as it turn and whirls in its constant dance up and over the sea.

And a hum, rising, sweeping in towards the beach.

 

*****

The motel, such as it is, infuriates him.

It’s the first time in three months he’s been well enough to appreciate his surroundings fully, to get up and move about them in his own time, as he pleases, and that this, the _Lighthouse Inn,_ is the best the world has to offer makes Hannibal in his own way a bit sick.

They’re in Nova Scotia, somewhere, awaiting the passing of winter, looking forward to the time when it will be much safer for the boat to cross. Hannibal is impatient. Will is not. Will says: “You want to get there in one piece or not? And I think you’d prefer not freezing to death. You already tried that once, remember?”

“I would prefer not to be on this continent.”

“Well, we’re agreed there.” Will settles back in the chair by the window, the one that gives them an arm’s wide view of the back parking lot and a scraggly looking lot of thin trees. “But short of growing wings and flying, Hannibal, the boat’s our best way. The safest, anyway. Or will be, once spring gets closer.”

Hannibal studies him, this new Will. He is bolder now, much; much brighter and often effortlessly charming. He’s had to be, these last months; he’s been their public face, after all: the one checking them into abominable motels that only take cash; the one buying groceries, such as they are; the one driving their dangerously poor Ford from one coastal town to the next. The boat is docked in Guysborough; they don’t dare wander too far. But nor, they’ve agreed, is it smart to linger too longer in one spot. Now that they’re both well enough to travel, now that Chiyoh has taken off to make their next round of arrangements, they feel more at ease on the road.

Even when it means spending multiple nights in bare, neglected places like this.

But all the cheap curtains and filthy bedspreads and dingy carpets in the world are worth it for this: watching Will lounge about with a glass of whiskey in hand, looking strong and confident. He has always been beautiful, Will, but now there is something more to it, a kind of electrified light inside him, a force of will, as it were, that makes him shine.

They know a kind of intimacy now that comes only from living together, from caring for each other’s broken bodies, for having their fingers linger in the other one’s blood. But, much to Hannibal’s chagrin, it has gone no further than that: Will has not kissed him, has never tried to. And Hannibal--Hannibal has only been himself again, fully, for a few short weeks, perhaps a month, and as strong as his desire is, has always been, his body has been otherwise occupied; healing, learning to walk again, eating, each of these things has demanded more of his attention than he’d anticipated. He's only just finding the time again to want.

He steps out of the bathroom doorway and moves back towards the bed, skin freshly if carefully scrubbed, clean bandages artfully applied. He is bare chested but not shivering, for the room is warm, the piped heat robust and unshaking. By the window, Will has tugged off his sweater and removed his boots, leaving only a dark t-shirt, socked feet, and jeans. The glass is in one hand, still, sweating. There is a lovely, tiny smile on his face.

“I was thinking,” Will says as Hannibal reaches for his shirt. “Tomorrow, we should walk down to the water.”

“Tsk,” Hannibal says. “Why?”

“Because it’s been two days and I’m starting to get itchy, cooped up in here like this.”

Hannibal tugs the white cotton over his head. “You were out today. The snow is up to your knees, you said.”

“True. But.” Will sets his glass on the sill. “It wouldn’t be quite so tall on you.”

A smile Hannibal can’t quite stop. “So you wish for me to go outside. Why did you simply not say so?”

The look Will gives is a heady mirror, a grin that lights up his eyes. “I didn’t want you to think I was chasing you away. Or telling you what to do. You’ve never taken taken well to either.”

“Still,” Hannibal says, coming to rest on the end of his bed, “I would prefer, Will, that you say what you mean.”

Will gets to his feet and stretches, like a man who’s been asleep for a long time. “That’s what you’d prefer?”

“It is. Surely that’s not a surprise.”

“Mmmm.” A low, affirmative rumble that feels like a bellows, a rush of air over the fire in Hannibal’s heart. “No. I wouldn’t say that it is.”

“Good.”

“May I tell say something else, then? In the spirit of the evening?”

“Only if you let me finish your drink. It is a waste, leaving it to sour like that.”

Will laughs and reaches back for the glass. “I hate to tell you, but I think Wild Turkey starts out sour. It can only get better with age.”

“Nevertheless,” Hannibal says, extending a hand. “That is my price.”

Three steps and Will’s in front of him, handing it over; a breath and the last of the whiskey’s scalding Hannibal throat, the cheap burn making him wince.

“All right then?” Will asks, looking terribly amused.

“All right.” The whiskey is settling in his stomach hard, his body not sure what to make of it; it’s been a long time since his last glass of wine, since that one heady sip of Will’s red. “What is it you wish to say?”

For a moment, Will’s new confidence wavers, like a flag whipped by the wind, but in the next, it’s hardened and then, somehow, Will Graham is on his knees and his hands are on Hannibal’s, firm.

“I lied,” Will says. “There’s not a damn thing I want to say.”

And then his fingers are in Hannibal’s hair, shaking, like that night on the beach but so much better; now, his grip is warm and damp, not frozen; now, his eyes are level with Hannibal’s and they’re beacons, unending, always welcoming light.

“Finally,” Hannibal murmurs, reaching for Will’s wrists. “You have come to me.”

Will makes a soft, hungry sound and pulls Hannibal to him. “Hannibal,” he says in the heartbeat before their mouths meet, “I’ve never left.”

**Author's Note:**

> A late MM today, forgive me.


End file.
